


Cold In Your Heart

by ossseous (ozean)



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Enemies With Benefits, Imprisonment, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Religion, Sex, some introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 19:19:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13981626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozean/pseuds/ossseous
Summary: Ivar can’t help but stare up at him and try to see what expression he’s making. What does he have hidden behind all that darkness of night? Is it contorted in agony? Agonizing in some unbidden pleasure? Eyes open, trying gulp in Ivar’s own expression? Or perhaps they are shut tight to allow himself some reprieve of denial.It’s not as though he can see him—really see him. Not in the dark when there’s barely a moon in the sky, that frail sliver hidden out beyond all those clouds, and when the fire’s begging and pleading with mournful little pops and cracks for another log, threatening to sizzle out altogether.





	Cold In Your Heart

Heahmund shudders like it pains him. Not physically, but like the entire concept itself is too much to fully, truly give into. A shudder of disgust maybe, wracking through his whole body, revulsion too heavy to bear.

But Heahmund sinks down all the same, finally pulling Ivar in deep and Ivar can’t help but stare up at him and try to see what expression he’s making. What does he have hidden behind all that darkness of night? Is it contorted in agony? Agonizing in some unbidden pleasure? Eyes open, trying gulp in Ivar’s own expression? Or perhaps they are shut tight to allow himself some reprieve of denial.

It’s not as though he can see him—really see him. Not in the dark when there’s barely a moon in the sky, that frail sliver hidden out beyond all those clouds, and when the fire’s begging and pleading with mournful little pops and cracks for another log, threatening to sizzle out altogether.

Ivar grips, scratches his fingers tight at Heahmund’s waist. He could pull Heahmund down, grind up into that tight, warmth. Maybe he could flip them, pin Heahmund to the bed, a handful of skull shoved into the pillows as Heahmund scrambles and, voice muffled, begs for a lungful of air. But Ivar wouldn’t relent, not until he was rutting deep into him and close to spilling everything he had inside the unforgiving clutch of his body.

But how they are is fine all the same. Ivar can feel each warm gust of Heahmund’s breath as it cascades over his face—hear the quiet grunts of effort as his hips work and his arms, strong, stretch out over his shoulders. They don’t wrap around Ivar in some loving embrace, but instead brace against the wall, perhaps a fist clenched in the headboard, anything to give Heahmund enough leverage to rock his hips in that succumbing rhythm that has Ivar’s vision seeping into that deep, deep black of thought with each involuntary flutter of his eyes.

Just then, he feels lips pressing to his forehead, the touch lightly wet, barely even there for more than a moment. But it’s long enough to remind him, if only briefly, of every kiss goodnight from his mother. Those ones he horded away from his brothers greedily. Took as proof he wasn’t some monster, but a person truly loved.

But that fleeting touch is not something gentle. Not even something to be called a kiss. It’s followed with teeth scraping on a hiss, the working clench of a jaw pressing painfully at his temple. So Ivar buries his face in Heahmund’s neck, slips his hands down to those bare thighs, grips his fingers tight into cords of muscle as Heahmund curls over him.

Heahmund’s rhythm slows at the touch, the sound of his knees sliding against the furs of his blankets rankles something through his spine that he doesn’t have the chance to chase as Heahmund pulls back and away.

Ivar still can’t quite see him, but Heahmund keeps his balance with rough, calloused hands rooking around Ivar’s neck, thumbs pressing painfully into his jaw, fingers threatening to slip against the slick sweat dripping down his spin. The change in angle must please Heahmund, though. Even if he tris to bite back the gasps as he sinks back down onto Ivar’s cock, Ivar still hears it. The room is far too still, too quiet to hide even the smallest of utterances.

And Ivar doesn’t know why it has to be that sound that undoes him. It pulls that last dangling threat, unravels every ounce of self-control. He grabs at Heahmund’s hips and pulls him flush against him. Heahmund doesn’t fight against the hold or Ivar’s intentions. Instead he seems to use the moment to collect his breaths as Ivar’s climax peaks. Ivar’s own sounds are careening breathlessly out of him, a keening, stuttered whine as he empties deep inside him.

Heahmund gives him only a moment to finish before he spills back on the bed, lets himself lay along the length of Ivar’s legs, uncaring of their deformity as Ivar’s cock slips free from him like he was never even buried in there to begin with.

It must surprise Heahmund, when Ivar takes his cock in his hand and starts to pull at it in rough, unwarned tugs. Heahmund seizes at the contact, the muscles of his stomach tightening against the back of Ivar’s fingers, jittering, fluttering under quick breaths as his hand shoots down and grabs blindly at Ivar’s wrist.

Ivar wonders if he could see Heahmund’s face would he be met with a glare? Or perhaps confusion. It doesn’t matter. Heahmund doesn’t push his hand away, doesn’t speak his protests, so Ivar ventures on. He lets his other hand slip up a prone thigh and between his legs. Fingers trace the juncture of Heahmund’s hip with near gentleness. Ivar lets his thumb slide down to massage circle after circle into the soft, vulnerable skin just beneath the weight of his balls.

And it’s the suggestion of his thumb dipping just the slightest bit lower, to rub absently over the raw, abused skin of his hole that Heahmund finally comes. It says wordlessly that he could just push right back in, taken him all over again. And his hips lift with it, straining against each spurt of seed that lands across Ivar’s knuckles.

Heahmund’s body uncoils almost all at once. He’s still got Ivar’s wrist in his grip as he relaxes back into the bed with deadweight. It’s the only real remaining point of contact between them and it’s such a difference from the pliant, loose spill of his body across Ivar’s bed. The grip is tight, painful even, fingers kept clamped around him until finally, with near hesitation, his fingers unlock one by one and Ivar’s wrist drops from his grasp.

And for a moment, all he can hear are Heahmund’s breaths, evening out, getting quieter and quieter. The silence that builds is unbearable, and Ivar loves to break things.

“Go fix the fire,” Ivar says, uncomfortable with Heahmund’s mounting comfort. The sight alone of another in his bed is peculiar. Maybe something he’ll never truly get used to. But for them to be there fearlessly, undaunted by Ivar presence not inches away—its practically unnatural.

Heahmund, perhaps unwilling to resist, pulls himself upright and steps from the bed. Ivar doesn’t even bother to watch, only listens to the way Heahmund breathes the coals to life. The snappy, scratching sound of him adding kindling before finally lugging logs from the stack, dropping them onto the fire with careless thunk after thunk. The fire surges, drops the room in a warm, low light.

Ivar doesn’t quite expect Heahmund to return to the bed, to climb back atop Ivar, knees straddling his thighs once more. But he can see Heahmund far more clearly under the flicker of the fire. He takes in the sweat clinging to his forehead, those nostrils flaring with each steady breath he takes. Heahmund doesn’t settle into his lap, doesn’t let his warmth seep back into Ivar once more. Rather he stays perched on his knees and Ivar, curiously, rubs his hands up and down Heahmund’s sides. It’s not unlike he might a nervous mare, ready to buck.

Heahmund snatches one of Ivar’s roaming hands up, grasping his wrist once more, and without warning he pulls it down between his legs. For a moment Ivar wonders if they are to have a second go of it, but before Ivar can even make do of readying himself again, Heahmund hunches down, whispers into his ear, “Get it out of me.”

Of course. Ivar huffs a laugh as Heahmund straightens back up, bracing a hand on each of Ivar’s shoulders.

“You know,” he smooths his fingers up along his thigh, “I didn’t think your God allowed you pleasure like this.”

Heahmund shuts his eyes, tilts his head back a bit. Not much, just enough that when Ivar looks up in search of that indifferent gaze he drinks in so hungrily, he can only see the distant flutter of his eyelashes. “It doesn’t,” he says.

“And yet,” he pauses and pushes his fingers in without preamble, and Heahmund sucks in a breath, muscle clenches around his intrusion. “Here you are.” Ivar sighs at the warmth of his own seed as he coaxes it free from the clutch of Heahmund’s body. “What would your God say?”

Heahmund looks like he doesn’t want to answer, doesn’t want to delve into the intricacies of faith with him at that moment. Maybe that’s not meant to be a conversation to be had with another man’s fingers prodding at you. When another man’s cock just took something from you.

“I will atone for it,” is all Heahmund answers. “He will forgive me.”

Ivar can’t help but laugh. “Better to ask his forgiveness than to ask for his permission, is it?” He wipes his hand on the blanket. Heahmund doesn’t respond, but he shuffles off of Ivar, settles into the bed next to him as though the spot is his own. “And how will you atone for it?” Ivar asks the expanse of his back, the broad set of his shoulders.

“I will put my sin to death.”

Ivar slips down in the bed, considers shoving Heahmund from the bed altogether, but his curiosity itches and before he can let Heahmund drift off to sleep, he nudges him. “Will you let me watch you put your sin to death?”

Heahmund doesn’t answer, not at first. The silence draws out and Ivar even suspects he might have fallen asleep, that he will have to shake him awake to get his itch scratched. Then finally, he speaks.

“Yes. I think I will.”


End file.
